The land was never quiet in Killenburg. The clink of pickaxes rang out from the hills from sunup to sundown, and when the miners weren't digging for gold, they were drinking, whoring, or bleeding in the muddy streets. Killenburg was no paradise — it was a hard, brutal town builChapter 1 - Land of Gold & Gloryt on backbreaking work, broken dreams, and the faint hope of striking it rich before the ground gave out or the whiskey killed you.
The Gold Rush had drawn men from every corner of the country and beyond — Irish, Germans, freedmen, drifters, and deserters. A shantytown turned settlement turned something-like-a-town, Killenburg sat tucked in a dusty pocket of the midwestern frontier, too far west to be safe and too far east to matter. But it had gold, and gold changed everything.
That's why Milton Donaldson came.
He arrived by stagecoach, flanked by dust and thunder. The coach bore the emblem of Donaldson Rail & Timber — a gold-embossed sigil that caught the sunlight like a threat. Milton Donaldson stepped down in polished boots, his city suit a sharp contrast to the mud-slicked streets of Killenburg. The iron rails hadn't reached this far yet, but he would change that. And he didn't come alone.
Behind him came a second coach, this one packed with rough men who carried more steel on their hips than tools in their hands. They weren't builders. They were enforcers. Donaldson didn't need to say it — he came to make a deal, and he'd brought insurance.
Martello sat across from him, the tension thick enough to choke on. The old Italian wore his best coat, but the cuffs were fraying, and his boots were patched twice over. He'd buried more miners than he could count and had the weary eyes of a man who'd seen too much and trusted too little.
Donaldson didn't waste time.
"Here's the deal," he said, sliding a contract across the blood-stained saloon table. "You let my railroad come through. I build the station, the infrastructure, everything — at no cost to you. But fifty percent of all rail profits from your stop come back to me. Permanent cut. Fair."
Martello frowned. "And if we say no?"
Donaldson's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then I buy out the land underneath your homes. Legally. Quietly. You'll get your eviction notices by summer, and by fall, this town'll be mine anyway. Either way, the iron comes through. You can bleed or you can profit."
A silence hung in the room.
Martello glanced to his right — Sheriff McCall, a former Pinkerton with a busted nose and more bullets in his past than good decisions. The sheriff gave a subtle shake of his head. Not worth it, that look said.
"We're not a town of cowards," Martello replied. "But we're not suicidal either."
Donaldson leaned back, hands steepled.
"Then be smart."
After the meeting, the town was split.
The shopkeepers wanted the railroad — more goods, more customers, more money. The saloon girls didn't mind it either. More men meant more business. But the miners — the old-timers who'd carved this town out of stone and blood — they didn't like the idea of outsiders owning what they'd built.
"Fifty percent?" old Dutch Callahan spat in the dirt. "Might as well give him my damn pickaxe too."
The next few days were tense. Fights broke out in the saloon over the deal. A man was found hanged behind the stables — a note pinned to his chest with a railroad spike. No one said anything, but everyone knew what it meant.
Martello walked the town at dusk, cigar in hand, listening to the wind blow through cracked windows and broken dreams. He'd come to America to build something better, not sell his soul to men like Donaldson. But now the town was on the edge — and he was the fulcrum.
On the sixth day, Martello called a town meeting in the church. Every seat was filled. The miners stood at the back, arms crossed. The shopkeepers sat near the front, nodding to one another. Milton Donaldson sat in the front pew, hat in hand, calm as a rattlesnake in tall grass.
Martello stepped up to the altar, not with scripture, but with a speech and a pistol tucked under his coat.
"This town was built by our hands. Now the devil's come offering gold for our souls. Maybe we take the deal — maybe we don't. But we choose. Not him. Not his men. Us."
The room was silent. A single cough. A murmur.
And just like that, Killenburg stood on the edge of a decision that would shape its future — or end it.
The church sat silent for a long moment after Martello's words. No applause. No shouting. Just the creaking of old wood and the heavy breathing of men trying to decide whether to fight or fold.
Milton Donaldson didn't speak. He simply stood, adjusted his cufflinks, and walked out of the building like a man already counting his money.
Martello stayed at the altar. His eyes scanned the faces—miners with soot on their skin, merchants with ledgers in their hands, and whores with bruises hidden beneath rouge and lace. All of them waited for someone else to speak first.
It was Sheriff McCall who finally stepped forward.
"Ain't about what we want," the sheriff growled, voice rough as gravel. "It's about what we're prepared to do when what we want gets ignored. Man like Donaldson don't lose. He swallows towns like Killenburg whole."
A murmur of agreement rolled through the church, low and uncertain.
"We take the deal, maybe we survive," a storekeeper said. "Turn him down, maybe this place burns."
"Burns either way," came a voice from the back. It was Dutch Callahan, his crutch leaning beside the pew. "You just don't smell the smoke yet."
The meeting ended with no decision. Folks filtered out in silence, some heading back to their homes, others to the saloon, and a few straight into the dark woods beyond the river, where rumors whispered of old Union deserters still hiding from the world.
Martello sat in his study above the general store. A lamp flickered on the desk beside him, casting shadows across the faded map of the town. He'd poured himself a drink, cheap rye from the east, and was halfway through when the door creaked open.
It was McCall.
"There's a rumor goin' 'round," the sheriff said, shutting the door behind him. "Donaldson's men have already started surveying land east of town. Near Thompson's Creek. That ain't talk — that's action."
Martello cursed under his breath.
"We haven't even agreed."
"Don't need to. He's settin' the table while we argue about the menu."
The mayor drained the rest of his glass.
"How many men can you rally, if it comes to that?"
"Enough to make it hurt. Not enough to win."
"Then maybe it's not about winnin'."
McCall narrowed his eyes. "You talkin' suicide or strategy?"
"I'm talking survival. On our terms."
Two days later, Donaldson's men were seen marking trees and driving stakes into the ground east of Killenburg. They didn't ask. They didn't announce. They simply began.
Some townsfolk took it as a sign of progress. Others as the first nail in the town's coffin.
When a young farm boy named Eli caught one of Donaldson's men trespassing on his family's land and tried to chase him off, he got pistol-whipped for his trouble. The boy came back with a cracked jaw and a message:
"We don't take orders from dirt."
That night, three masked men rode out and burned one of Donaldson's survey tents to the ground in retaliation for the beating - the flames lit up the plains like sunrise, and by morning, there were rumors of blood in the grass.
That morning, two armored stagecoaches rolled into town under a thick veil of dust and heat. Reinforced with iron plates and drawn by coal-black horses, the wagons looked more like war machines than coaches. People paused mid-step. Hammers stopped striking, wheels stopped turning. Silence rippled across the town like a tremor.
They all knew who it was.
Donaldson was back.
The coaches came to a slow, deliberate stop outside the saloon. Every eye in town turned to the scene—shopkeepers peering through windows, ranchers tightening grips on their belts, even the sheriff watching from behind his office door.
Then the saloon doors flung open.
Donaldson stepped down from the lead wagon, dressed in a pristine three-piece suit blacker than tar. His boots shined like glass, and twin revolvers hung from his hips, polished to a mirror gleam. He didn't rush. He didn't need to. His presence alone cut through the stillness.
He looked around, chewing on a toothpick, before tossing it to the dirt.
"Well, well, well…" he said, voice deep and smooth, like a snake in prayer. "What a mess."
He lit a cigar with a flick of his wrist, took a long drag, and let the smoke roll off his tongue. "I never knew such dirt-poor souls would want to interfere in my business—my pride, my joy… my money."
The crowd stiffened. Whispers passed like wind through a wheat field.
Then the mayor stepped forward, nervous but trying to maintain authority. "What is it, Donaldson? We haven't agreed to—"
Donaldson cut him off with a sharp glance. "The deal is done. I sent the paperwork through to the regional office. This land? It's mine now. I'm transforming this town into a frontier outpost—trade, supply lines, military contracts. Big money."
He took another drag, then exhaled toward the mayor's face.
"You'll be taxed so high, your bones'll feel it. And if you can't pay… well, I guess you'll be forced to vacate. One way or another."
More doors opened. Families stepped out to see. Mothers pulled children back behind aprons. The townsfolk were gathering now—but no one dared speak.
Donaldson's men began to file out of the stagecoaches—long coats, spurred boots, rifles over shoulders. They moved with precision. These weren't drunk bounty hunters or amateur gunslingers. These were trained, quiet, efficient men. Killers.
Donaldson gestured lazily toward them. "Secure the saloon, the bank, the telegraph station. Nobody leaves. Nobody sends word."
A hard pause settled.
Then Eli stepped forward.
His face was still swollen and bruised from the last run-in—his ribs barely healing. But he stood tall. Determined. Angry.
"You're not welcome here," he said. "You can't just take what you want."
Donaldson turned slowly, as if mildly amused. "You again."
He stepped closer, until the two stood almost toe to toe.
"I thought I told my boys to teach you a lesson."
Eli didn't blink. "They failed."
Donaldson gave a faint grin, then nodded.
Two men seized Eli and slammed him against the hitching post. The crack of impact echoed down the street. His knees buckled, blood dripping from his mouth.
A few townsfolk flinched—some even reached for weapons—but Donaldson's men already had theirs raised. Dozens of barrels suddenly gleamed in the morning light.
"Don't be stupid," barked one of the enforcers. "You move, you die."
The crowd froze.
Donaldson exhaled smoke and stepped back.
"Let this be a warning," he said. "I'm not here to negotiate. I'm here to claim what's mine."
Then he turned to the mayor, all pretense of civility gone.
"You've got one week to get your people in line. After that... there won't be any people left to warn."
With that, he marched up the saloon steps, boots echoing off the boards, and pushed through the swinging doors like he owned the place.
Because now… he did.
The saloon doors creaked shut behind Donaldson.
For a moment, the town just stood there — stunned. No one spoke. No one moved. The only sound was Eli's labored breathing, still slumped against the post, blood trailing from his mouth to the dirt.
Then, without warning, the doors swung open again.
Donaldson stepped back out, still puffing on his cigar, his boots striking the boards with deliberate weight. His eyes scanned the street, the crowd, the trembling mayor.
Then they landed on Eli.
He walked down the steps slow, smooth, and silent. No words. Just the rhythmic thud of boots against earth.
Eli tried to stand. Tried to speak. But his legs gave out beneath him. Blood caked his lips. One eye was already swelling shut.
Donaldson stopped in front of him, towering above like a hangman over a noose.
"I thought I'd let you off easy," he said quietly. "Thought maybe pain would be enough."
He knelt down beside him, almost gentle.
"But then you opened your mouth again. In front of them."
He motioned to the crowd. Dozens of faces now — men, women, children. All frozen. Watching. No one brave enough to speak.
"You made me look weak, boy."
He stood again, slow and calm, then handed his cigar to one of his men.
With no warning, Donaldson drove a boot into Eli's ribs. The sound was dull — flesh on bone. Then again. And again. Each strike more vicious than the last. Eli gasped, coughed, collapsed fully onto the dirt.
Then Donaldson drew one of his revolvers — smooth and polished, the silver reflecting the sky.
He looked out at the crowd, expression blank.
"This," he said, gesturing to Eli's broken body, "is what happens when you mistake freedom for entitlement. When you confuse kindness for weakness. When you forget your place."
He turned back, raised the pistol.
Eli, barely conscious, blinked through blood and dirt — then the world went silent.
A single shot cracked through the street.
Eli's head snapped back. His body twitched once. Then stilled.
Blood pooled in the dirt, soaking into the dry earth as the smoke drifted upward, curling around the post where he died.
Donaldson reholstered his weapon, calm and collected, then took his cigar back.
He stepped over the body and looked to the mayor.
"Clean that up."
Then, without another word, he disappeared back into the saloon.
This time, the doors stayed open behind him.
As if daring anyone to follow.
The shot still echoed in their ears.
No one moved.
Not a soul.
Eli's body lay twisted in the dirt, his blood creeping like ink through the dust beneath the hitching post. A single drop of it rolled downhill, pooling near the sheriff's boots.
Children clung to their mothers. Old men stared hollow-eyed from behind cracked windows. The blacksmith's apprentice turned and vomited behind a trough. Even the horses had gone quiet.
No one dared speak. Not after that.
Donaldson's men stood like statues. Some with stone faces, others with shadows in their eyes. A few of them looked away — just briefly. One muttered something under his breath. Another wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a gloved hand.
But none questioned it.
They were too far in now. And Donaldson? He was still just inside the saloon, laughing with a bottle of whiskey like nothing happened.
Control wasn't just asserted.
It was cemented.
The mayor stood there, wide-eyed, mouth half open. His knuckles were white around the brim of his hat. The sheriff, still leaning against the corner post of his office, finally straightened up. He looked at the body, then at the people, then at Donaldson's men.
He turned without a word and walked inside.
The mayor followed seconds later.
Sheriff's Office – Late Afternoon
The door clicked shut behind them. The town outside buzzed faintly — whispers, muffled sobs, footsteps hurrying away. The smell of gun oil and sweat clung to the sheriff's coat.
He sat down slow, eyes bloodshot.
The mayor remained standing.
"You saw that," the mayor whispered, voice tight. "You saw what he did."
"I saw," the sheriff said.
"We can't let that slide."
"I know."
A pause.
Neither spoke for several seconds. The clock ticked behind them, slow and methodical. The same rhythm as the boots that had walked Eli to death.
The mayor stepped forward. "That was murder. Cold-blooded, public murder."
The sheriff nodded. "A message."
"And what do we do now? Huh?" The mayor's voice cracked. "Wait for more bodies to pile up? Wait for the next funeral? He's gonna bleed this town dry."
The sheriff leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "If we fight him now, we lose. Look out there. They ain't ready. Half of them are scared stiff. The other half are praying someone else makes the first move."
The mayor paced, hands trembling. "Then what? You want to wait?"
The sheriff looked him dead in the eyes. "I want to live long enough to see a chance. And right now? We don't got one."
Another long silence.
Then the mayor slumped into a chair across from him.
He whispered, almost to himself, "He shot a man in the street like it was nothing…"
The sheriff didn't reply.
He just stared at the bullet hole in the post outside the window. The blood still hadn't dried.
Sheriff's Office – Late Afternoon
The mayor leaned forward, head in his hands. "We need to find someone… anyone. Send word. Get a wire out before he locks it all down."
The sheriff shook his head. "Too risky. He's already watching the line. Hell, we make one move and he might—"
The door creaked open behind them.
Slow. Smooth.
The sound of spurred boots stepping onto the wood floor followed. No rush. Just deliberate, heavy-footed confidence.
A pause.
Then the unmistakable sound of a match being struck.
They both froze.
Smoke drifted in before the voice did.
"Well now," Donaldson said, his tone like silk over barbed wire. "Ain't this cozy?"
The mayor and sheriff turned slowly.
Donaldson stepped fully into the office, backlit by the dying light of day, puffing on his cigar like a man who'd just come home from a long day of empire-building.
He took in the scene — the worried looks, the tension, the guilt — and grinned.
"Didn't mean to interrupt the war council," he said, letting the door creak shut behind him. "But I figured, after I left such a memorable impression out there… you two might be in here plotting something clever."
He didn't wait for a response. He walked over to the sheriff's desk and casually sat on the edge, brushing some dust off his knee with the back of his hand.
The sheriff's jaw tightened. The mayor didn't move.
"Y'know," Donaldson said, "when I came back, I thought maybe—maybe—you'd all see reason. I thought a little taste of structure might appeal to folks sick of starving in the dirt."
He leaned in slightly.
"But then that boy had to go and open his mouth. Now he's fertilizer. And from the looks of it, you two are startin' to forget where you sit in the food chain."
The mayor stood slowly. "We're still the governing body of this town—"
Donaldson's boot hit the floor hard as he stood, fast.
The office went quiet.
He stepped forward, nose to nose with the mayor.
"No," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "You were."
He turned to the sheriff next.
"And you? I suggest you keep that badge on for appearances. But don't go confusing it for authority. You'll keep the peace. My peace. Otherwise, next time I walk in here…"
He pointed two fingers at his own temple, then mimed a gunshot.
The sheriff didn't speak. He just gave the slightest nod.
Donaldson smiled again, warm and mocking.
"Atta boy."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the door.
"Oh — and clean that mess up outside. The smell of failure's startin' to drift."
He opened the door, then paused, halfway out.
"One more thing," he added without turning. "There's no more church meetings. No more town halls. No more secret talks behind closed doors. You don't speak unless I say so. And if I find out you do…?"
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes cold.
"I'll burn this town to ash — one house at a time."
Then he stepped out, the door swinging slowly shut behind him.
The office remained still. Silent.
All they could hear now was the echo of his boots fading down the street — and the wind rustling through the blood-stained post outside.
Evening – Just Outside Town, Boot Hill
The sun dipped low over the horizon as the townsfolk gathered around the freshly dug grave. No music played. No hymns. Just the sound of shovels scraping earth and boots shifting nervously in the dust.
The coffin was plain pine — built hastily, Eli's body wrapped in an old canvas tarp. His face, or what remained of it, had been gently covered. The mayor had carved his name into the side with a pocketknife.
The sheriff stood at the head of the grave, hat in hand, his face heavy with exhaustion and guilt. The mayor beside him was silent, staring blankly ahead, like he was already halfway gone himself.
Men, women, even children came. Some whispered prayers. Others stared at the dirt, afraid to speak too loudly. The silence was thick — mourning layered with fear.
Then the sound of hooves.
And laughter.
Donaldson arrived on horseback, flanked by four of his men. He swung down with casual flair, cigar in one hand, polished boots hitting the ground with a thud. He adjusted his coat, stepped toward the crowd like he was arriving at a dinner party.
"Well now," he said, eyes scanning the mourners. "Didn't think y'all were gonna throw such a lovely send-off."
No one responded.
He stepped up beside the coffin, looking down at it like it were a spilled drink. He shook his head slowly.
"Such a shame," he said, mock solemn. "Young man with a bright future in… hammerin' horseshoes or whatever the hell he did."
The sheriff stiffened but said nothing.
Donaldson turned, addressing the crowd with a hand over his heart. "My sincerest condolences. Truly. I never meant for things to go so far. Just wanted a conversation, and well… you know how boys are. They get mouthy."
A few people looked away, some clenching their fists. Donaldson smiled faintly.
Then she stepped forward.
A woman in a threadbare black dress — mid-thirties, worn by grief. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears. Eli's sister.
"You… monster," she said, voice trembling but rising. "You murdered my brother."
Donaldson tilted his head, mock-offended. "Murder? That's a mighty strong word for… discipline."
She shoved him.
Hard.
He didn't move. Just blinked once, then slowly handed off his cigar to a nearby guard.
Gasps rose from the crowd. One of Donaldson's men reached for his sidearm.
"No," Donaldson said, raising a hand. "Let her speak."
She collapsed forward now, pounding weakly on his chest, sobbing. "He didn't deserve this! He was a good man… a good man!"
Donaldson just let it happen for a moment, almost enjoying the performance.
Then he leaned in, speaking just loud enough for the crowd to hear.
"You're right," he said, voice syrupy and low. "He probably was a good man. But good men die every day. Especially when they forget who's in charge."
She screamed — a broken, raw sound — and fell to her knees in the dirt.
Donaldson looked to his men again. "Let her go. Let them all go."
Then he turned to the crowd once more.
"I'm not a cruel man," he said, with mock gravity. "This isn't personal. It's just business. Remember that."
He took the cigar back, gave the sheriff a slight nod, and turned to leave.
But not before tossing a single silver coin onto the lid of the coffin.
"For the gravekeeper," he said. "Let's make sure our friend here gets covered up proper."
The townsfolk watched him ride off, his men trailing behind.
The silence he left behind was worse than before.
The sheriff knelt beside the woman, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice barely a whisper. "I should've stopped it. I should've…"
She didn't answer. Just wept into her hands, her grief echoing across the dry hills.
The sheriff looked down at the grave.
And swore, quietly, that there wouldn't be a second one like this.
Not without a fight.